Fading Rose
by Crimson-Strength
Summary: In the late 1800s a rich family's house is burned down and their son is still inside, he grows up on his own in the burnt house while tea and a lit candlestick magically appear for him so he thinks they're alive. Scared and lost, the boy's only hope of seeing reality is a girl he's forcing to see things his way. T for dark themes and heavy/violent autism and PTSD. for NaNoWriMo
1. Prologue

Prologue

Roaring flames engulfed the corners of the room, dark flames, hot like Hell without any light or any way of escape, these flames were only a glimmer in the night, seen over a great distance through the heavy snow. A spire just across and above from the dark cell burned like a torch from its corners, and as the glass windows shattered, two people could be seen nearing the edge, pressed against the flames like bayonets upon their backs. Between the frigid iron bars barely touched by the Hellfire in the room, a boy was held back against the stone wall, but he climbed up to the barred window to see just as the two distant figures fell from the spire.

The burning flames and the vision bore itself into his dark green eyes only able to stare horrified as he watched his own mother and father, plummet to their deaths, holding each other in their arms if they had not already passed on before the struck the snow. The gothic structures loomed over the fateful sight stretching kilometers above the tragedy but from far below it, his eyes only at ground level, the boy watched his own parents' bodies set ablaze by those storming their home. Fire was the method by which their family was destroyed believing they would all burn, conclusively and eternally.

"Get down from there, Microux!" his handmaid ordered, grabbing him by his thin waist and setting his feet on the floor below the window. However feeling the woman's touched, the boy suddenly let out a cry, shrieking for fear of the imagery spinning about through his mind like the pictures making up all his memory. He kicked and screamed until he was left on the floor holding his own head as he laid against the dirty stone floor. His parents knew this was coming and to keep him save they had trusted his life to his handmaid and sent him beneath the manor to the dungeon which was the safest place to hide. Everything was stone and iron, and there was no wood to burn consequently, the cold air seeped in through the bars of the narrow window.

When he had calmed, his handmaid helped him sit up and hurriedly, seeing there was no way to move him at this time without triggering him to scream in a panicking frenzy, the woman pressed into his hand a thick iron key, "Hold onto this, Microux," she ordered, "don't let it go, when it's time to leave you'll need it!"

The young boy stared down at the key as tears flowed over his eyes but he shook his head, "Don't leave…" he whispered, "I can't leave!" he insisted, "I have to stay right here!" he demanded bringing his voice to a yell.

The handmaiden shushed him, "That's right, we'll stay right here until it's safe," she assured him quietly. Slowly she sat down on the cold floor near to him, holding him tight and keeping him safe as she had promised to. They could feel the heat from the flames outside but they could do nothing as the household crumbled around them. Microux was young, gaunt, and weak minded, but to his parents, he was the only thing of worth they truly had, it was their dying wish to protect him. still there was something odd about Microux that had just started to blossom before all this, a creative imagination, which blurred reality for him, bringing to life his startling fantasies.

The boy covered his ears at the screech of the steel door swinging open cursing his sensitive perceptiveness with pain. Within his handmaid's protection he slowly rocked his body back and forth, to comfort himself with steady motion unable to do much more from locked inside this cell. He paid little attention when four men from the village with rifles and torches in their hands stepped down into the dungeon. "Find the key!" Microux heard one of them say upon seeing the two of them inside the cell and he clutched tighter to cold iron in his hand.

Microux's handmaid stood up slowly, "Just leave the boy be, you done what you set out to accomplish, he's only a boy, what harm could he do you?!" she yelled to attempt and ward them off, staying in front of him as she did.

One man with a gun that bore a long bayonet on the end suddenly struck the sturdy iron bars with the butt stock of his gun terrifying the boy and making him cry out loudly as he held his ears. "Why would the late Le Marquise de Choixton promise his entire fortune to an invalid such as that!" he spat through the bars at Microux. The boy shuddered and pressed himself up against the wall whilst gripping the key over his heart.

The man set his gun to his shoulder, causing the maid's spine to stiffen and Microux lifted his eyes to see in the moment before his handmaid spoke, "What do you even want with the boy, you've destroyed the Choixton fortune!" she shouted.

At this the man sized her up closing one eye behind the fuse on his rifle, "I could care less if he died, I'm just here to ensure he does!" He then directed his rifle at the young boy and without giving it a second thought pulled the trigger letting the hammer fall upon his powder. In the smoke and the backfire no one saw except Microux how quickly his handmaid jumped in the line of fire to save his life in giving up her own. Microux's eyes grew wider than they could stretch as the woman fell, striking her head against the stone as blood trickled from the wound close to her heart.

Microux screamed much like the voice of a wraith, holding his ears as he stared down at the black pool slowly drifting out from the woman's body. All the strength he had left to him he screamed out as he was unable to move, only watching as the men who had killed her, pointed a torch into the cell. Microux stared into the flames horrified and unable to move, unable to look away, as the men set fire to the handmaiden's clothes and burned her body where she laid. His eyes dashed to one of them men pointing a gun at him, and his breathing accelerated for fear until the man who had shot Microux's handmaid stopped him, "Leave him, he has no way out, let him starve to death in his insanity!" he snapped and the four men left him in the cell with the burning body.

That night was not the source of Microux, Le Marquise de Choixton Duex's insanity, but it was the fuel, creating a great barrier in his mind, which was impenetrable, making it impossible for him to see through to reality. His memory immortalized everything he had seen that night, and he had little clue that any time passed after that, the only hint he had of being alive were the steady things, reoccurring, proof that things that faded away would return to him.

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><p><strong>If I have successfully sucked you in, you have just witnessed the prologue of my new NaNoWriMo project! For all of you I will clarify right now, the main character Le Marquise Microux de Choiton Duex is autistic boy with PTSD, but this is the 19th century and no one knows that those are. Before I get any crap about how I refer to and describe this character because he's autistic, I have been volunteering with my church for years to care for and teach Bible-school lessons to those in our church is disabilities. I am very close friends with multiple people who have Autism or Aspergers. I mean no disrespect to them in writing this. Also keep something important in mind whenever you read this. <strong>

**Having autism does not make an individual any less smart than a typical person, and often Autism heightens one's perception of noise, sight, and all senses, including memory, so an individual with autism is always smarter than you think!**

**That said, enjoy!**


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter I

When at long last he drifted out of his waking dreams, so vivid and full of the life he once new, the first sight he saw above him he had come to know with accuracy. Every fractal and evidence of the smoke decorated the burn on the ceiling of his room assuring him that nothing had changed overnight. The room was cold for the glass in the windows had been long since shattered, but his covers kept him warm enough, and this was good to him. Sitting up slowly, Microux looked to his right at a table where a tea pot and single teacup was laid out, and next to it a lit, gold candlestick.

For a few moments he stared at them, mildly confused about how they had appeared there since no one lived in the remains of his parents' manor in years, save himself. Very slowly, he pushed off the covers and set his feet over the side of the bed. With shaking fingers, Microux took hold of the teapot and carefully lifted the well of hot fluid and poured it into the teacup. He spilled a little and noticed a light grunt like the heat of the boiling water splashing against the saucer burned it and caused it paint.

He set down the teapot with care hearing the voice whisper, "English blend breakfast tea," he did not respond to it however and slowly reached to take the teacup and saucer. The world was a dark twisted place where the halls were burned and dust covered everything, about his room laid collected objects which reminded him silently, by their presence of his past life. The twisted halls assured him, whispering to his frail heart, that he would stay here forever, haunted by spirits in the drapery which closed every night, clothes which folded themselves, tea which boiled itself, and a candlestick which appeared by his bedside every morning.

He blew over the tea until the frigid air cooled it and he sipped the dark rich flavor, warming his senses from the cold nights he endured. This house was looming and dark with the shadows of his mother and father's spirits roaming the manor and caring for their son. Microux was almost certain he was dead and trapped inside this house to endure the overwhelming layers of delusions death had given to him. He stood up, carrying his tea across the room to a painting which was charred about its edges but still dimly displayed his parents faces. All he was able to do was stare at it and ignore the voices from behind him, questioning him when he stood there for hours into the morning.

When he finished the tea cup it left his hand and returned to the tray, which squirmed out of the room to begin boiling tea for the night breaking meal. However, Microux only stared longer at the painting, not ignoring the fact that objects moved on their own, but accepting it as normal. His mind drifted, looking about the room and slowly stepping back towards the bed, "Won't you get dressed now?" a voice suggested to him. Slowly his eyes darted at the candlestick as if a bit startled.

"Microux," it addressed him in a gentle soft voice, "You should get dressed," it told him. he watched the flickering flames silently for a moment then gave a brisk nod. Quickly, Microux dug into his wardrobe and dressed himself, fastening the buttons unevenly, taking a few strokes at his auburn hair which danced about his shoulders in an unruly fashion, and he hurriedly tucked his feet into knee-high socks and boots. "Why are you in a rush?" the candlestick asked, concerned or the boy.

Microux had quickly selected a white shirt with lace cuffs that he neglected to tuck into his pant, and blue and gold vest which despite it's formal appearance looked awful with the buttons lopsided as they were. He knotted the lacing of his boots into an unsalvageable mess barely taking time to care for the buttons on his cuffs, "When the Old Clock… points to twelve and eight, breakfast has to be in place," he spoke slowly, with effort as he rushed about. Too focused on dressing to speak which was already very difficult for him. Every word rolled off his tongue like honey, some taking longer than others and getting stuck, but the Old Clock, numbers, and mentioning breakfast were easy to say.

The sound of his boots stamping against the floors was like a steady drum, the evenness soothed his heart and he did not alter his pace even on the stairs down to the dining room. The aged wood floors creaked under the darkened velvet carpet, evidence of the fire was everywhere but the structure had not weakened in some places. However, in other places, it was unsafe to enter the room according to the candlestick and the old clock. Upon reaching the dining room, Microux stared out at the pale sky sparkling with large clumps of snow too big to be called snowflakes, and so dense they were like gray ash descending from the fire he had seen ages ago. He stopped on the last stair and his eyes locked on the sight of the dark snowflakes falling outside.

It was ashes descending outside and cursing the landscape, choking the air out of it, marking the house with the tragedy that had occurred there. Microux's breath came out it puffs of fog for the house was always cold, but his fear overwhelmed him and he gripped his wrist, forming a fist in his left hand where he had held onto that key, while he scratched his wrist with his right hand, deepening the irritated groves already there. His reflection of his fear could be seen in the glass of the face of the Old Clock as he ran towards the drapes and hurriedly closed them so that the room became very dark.

"What are you doing, Microux?" the Old Clock burst upon seeing his sudden action and he sent the candlestick to stop him. As the light from its little flame drew nearer to him, Microux bashed it away knocking the lit candle right from the candlestick. The flame went out as it fell through the air, then broke in two as it hit the floor followed by Microux. He collapsed to the floor instinctively and held himself against the wall in terror, holding his ears and pulling at his hair, unable to withstand the flames still burning in his memory.

He lurched his head forward and swung back slowly and steadily like an inverted pendulum, he rocked to and fro slowly feeling calmer the longer he did it but nothing dampened his fear. "After the fire falls the ashes…" he whispered, "the fire will go out, then falls the ashes…" he closed his eyes hearing his own breaths as they rose and fell, "fire falls to ash…" he lulled softly.

"Microux!" the Old Clock urged from its place across the room and Microux tensed slowly looking up to suddenly see the hands of another person holding his arms. "Come now, it's only snow, they're not ashes!" he assured. Microux's eyes locked on the man, seeing his deep green eyes, but he had short gray hair which appeared full of ashes and skin which folded in aged wrinkles like the skin on an old piece of fruit.

Microux screamed and pushed the man away, crying out and flailing to get out of the man's grip even as the old man tried to control him as he kicked. "Microux!" the man raised his voice, "please calm down, it's only me, the Old Clock, remember?" he tried to assure him as he fell into one of his fits, screaming and flailing on the floor until his arms and knees were covered in bruises. There was nothing a clock could do about it, nor a candlestick, nor a warm cup of tea.

Some time passed while he laid on the floor, tightly holding his knees and rocking until the candlestick and the teapot stood tall on the table, and breakfast was served. For a while, he could hear no voices of the living objects around him, and when the voices slowly returned, he drew himself up and seated himself at the table to eat.

"If his fits get much worse he's going to hurt himself," he heard the voice of the teapot whispering.

"It was only snow that set him off… anything that reminds him…" one teacup said softly.

"Are you alright, father?" the candlestick asked the Old Clock.

The aged old man bore a watch which had a distinctly higher pitched tick which Microux could make out from across the room. It seemed the Old Clock was the most supportive of the boy he had come to raise into adulthood and his worry for Microux evident in his voice was soothing as Microux closed his eyes and laid his head back against the head rest of the chair. It didn't matter what they were saying, but hearing the voices always calmed him, knowing these things which appeared about the house for him which could talk were his friends.

The Old Clock shook his head, "I am fine, but it's time we tried to do something for Microux, he can't stay locked up here forever, not through another winter."

"What do you suppose we do?" the candlestick asked worriedly, "he will not leave this house willingly, we have tried and hurt ourselves doing it." The candlestick had a sense of power over the house, bringing light and organizing the things Microux had come to love.

Again the old Clock sighed, "He's no longer a boy, Microux is twenty-two and he needs help, surely he was not always this way and he can be healed of the ailment he suffers from!" the Clock stood up tall in the room and let out a heavy _dong_ at the top of the hour, "It pains me to say we've done all we can for him, we should call upon a doctor, who can help us cure him of the fear he has."

To this, the candlestick and the teapot agreed and it seemed the teacup did not have much say in the matter, being younger and smaller than the rest of them. The Old Clock, being the oldest, existed in every room of this house in some form, and his spirit like a ghost followed Microux about, guiding him and keeping him safe. However, Microux did not often see the Old Clock was an old man who had cared for him since he was young. He denied that fact though, fearing people and contact with him, so believing those around him were objects made to serve him, made him more comfortable to be around them.

The teapot filled another cup of tea for Microux as he finished eating and he drank it slowly, staring up at the closed drapes where he would normally stare out the windows. Between sips he would set down his cup to continue scratching at his arm, digging deeper into the damage he had already done to it. The candlestick and the teapot knew better than to touch him, for he would not tolerate the contact, so there was nothing they could do to stop him from hurting himself in this way.

Over the last fifteen years, Microux had survive quietly in his parents house, unwilling to leave and believing he was alone so he created bodies for the voices he heard. He blocked out human contact from his perception of reality and somehow household objects were easier to assign personalities to. The Old Clock managed the household, making sure things were in order for the troubled master, the candlestick prepared the meals and made sure the house was lit and warm, and the teapot and the teacup in addition to bringing him tea also cleaned what portions of the home that were not burnt.

Not much could be done to restore the manor to his former splendor for Microux would not allow any unwelcome guests and his perception of them was something now of his faithful servants could ever understand. As the day went on, Microux walked the halls of the manor, quietly observing its remains and taking time to stare often into the deep wonders of paintings on the walls, and sculptures in the halls. He found himself in a study off from the stairs to the spire where he slept and as he walked in the candlestick made sure the fire was burning warmly in the end of the room.

Too often it was hit or miss with Microux and fire, sometimes he was obstinate about having the candlestick near him in the room, whereas other times it terrified him and he'd sit for hours in the cold, not allowing any light near him. After the hearth was burning bright, the candlestick disappeared for a few hours and Microux stayed seated, watching the fire after a few hours the teapot came and the drapes in the room were opened for a little more light, bringing with it, a large canvas and a wooden case.

Microux stared away from the teapot and the canvas as it arranged itself by the window, he propped his chin on his wrist and fiddled with his hair uneasily until the teapot was left at his side with the teacup and saucer near to it. When it had not moved for a few minutes, Microux slowly stood up and walked over to the canvas which had been placed upon an easel with a set of paints in a base on the table beside it.

The canvas was a person to him too, he felt it begged him to put his thoughts to something he could see, even though he never heard it speak. Quickly he spread out an array of paints on his palette, and he slowly mixed the dark colors together. He outlined the silhouette of the spire onto the canvas in black finely detailing every gothic peak fading upward from the roof. He painted, fire red and hot, and bloody background and flames rising up from all around it, the only lighting from the distant right of the painting as the assailants paraded away with their torches.

The door opened behind him and he looked up at the sky, realizing the snow had stopped and a pale winter sun shone through the blurry window panes. He had been standing there for hours, painting the details of his painting quickly. Behind him he heard the voice of the candlestick, speaking softly, "he does not know we are here," the candlestick explained, "he refers to us as the candlestick, the Old Clock, and the teapot," it gestured about to its fellows.

"Who are you to him?" another voice asked quietly. Microux tensed and his fingers curled around the paintbrush, clenching it tightly.

The candlestick glanced across the room, "he calls me the candlestick," he stated discouraged.

The new, strange voice denied, "No, does he know who you are?"

Microux heard the candlestick sigh, sadly, "I am his uncle, his father's brother," to the Old Clock he gestured, "This is my father, Microux's grandfather," he introduced.

The Old Clock bowed slowly, "Charles Choixton," he introduced himself politely.

The candlestick then turned his attention to the tea set which had been watching over Microux as he painted, "This is my wife, Gail, and our daughter Christine," he gestured to them consecutively.

The new voice bowed slightly in return and his eyes drifted across the room to Microux, "Does he paint often?" the man asked striding closer with uneven steps. Microux heart was steadier and faster than the unsteady claps of the man's feet against the floor causing his spine to stiffen.

The candlestick affirmed, "Almost every day, and he rarely deviates from that image," he gestured aside in the room to a wall lined with canvases, mostly of the same size but some of them smaller, most of which displayed the tower. Some however, showed his room, recreations of the painting of his parents to exacting detail, and some of outside though there were only one or two, since he never left the house.

The man stepped over to the pile of paintings and defensively, Microux hurried over there to prevent the stranger from touching them, however he never met eyes with the man, staring at the floor and his paintings. Slowly the man reached out to browse through the stacks but Microux hurriedly stopped him, "Don't touch!" he snapped, getting in front of him but not daring to touch the man, "They're still not dry…" he added, worried for his canvases.

The man looked to him and very slowly, Microux looked at the man, not able to find his eyes, just his round belly, unbuttoned suit jacket, and dark blue bowtie. He thought it was a strange color for a bowtie, and that the man should have the decency to button his jacket. "Monsieur Microux…" he man addressed softly, "My name is Gerhardt Dentelle, I'm here to—"

Without a word, Microux reached out to the man and took hold of his jacket, unsure if the jacket would actually fit around the man's belly but to his surprise it did. The man was left silent as Microux fastened the two buttons on his suit jacket then without speaking at all, Microux returned to his painting across the room. He took up the palette again and without much distraction at all he finished off the details on the spire and began filling in the rest of the background with a dark red, smearing it with black and brown upon the sky.

The man stared at him and Microux could feeling heating his back even from across the room as the man ask the candlestick, "How well does he speak?"

The candlestick's voice was proud and happy, "Microux," he called, the young man turned his head to the fire as if it spoke to him, "There is a kind of tea you don't like, will you please let Monsieur Dentelle know what it is?"

Microux stretched it arm to the top corners of the canvas, not turning back to the group as he muttered, "Monsieur Dentelle…" he stumbled over the name, "may not have grey tea, the teapot does not make it… nor may he make it," he muttered, dismissive of the objects behind him.

The candlestick furrow angrily, "Be polite!" he ordered sternly, "I've invited him to join us for tea this afternoon," his voice grew louder than the idle whisper in the background he was used to.

Microux stepped back from the painting and rocked where he stood, "There can't be any loud voices…" he whispered very softly, "the voices have to be quiet!" he repeated it softly as he tried to calm himself from the shock it gave him. He could take the loud noises, he didn't care how many voices chanted in the background of his senses, as long as they were quiet. Yelling terrified him.

Carefully, though getting paint on his hands, Microux picked up the canvas and brought it over to the others having finished it very quickly. He set it down to dry then cleaned off his hands and walked out of the room muttering as he did, "We will not have tea this afternoon, Monsieur Dentelle can leave now," he insisted softly as he hurried away from them.

Frustrated the candlestick hurried after him, followed by the man he had brought into the house. "Microux!" he urged still with raised voice. Microux stopped in the middle of the foyer, his eyes dashing about frantically for the candlestick set upon an end table across from the entryway and beside the stairs. It was not lit but he rushed to it and set it hands on the table staring at it with his brows drawn and he rocked before it waiting for it to speak.

The unlit candlestick was gold and heavy and it looked up at Microux with pity in its eye, the blackened wick of the candle, "Microux, Monsieur Dentelle is a doctor, he's here to help you."

Microux gripped the edges of the table reeling over it, a doctor was here to make him well, he wasn't sick, he knew he wasn't, the doctor wanted him to leave this place, but his home was his only hope of making it out of this terrifying purgatory forced onto him. He wouldn't survive if he left, he couldn't bear it. That man was a demon enticing him with hope or normalcy and excitement, but he was only to lead Microux down a path to the Hell where he came.

Microux reached out and grasped the candlestick's neck, picking it up and raising the heavy gold towards the doctor. "I won't leave!" he screamed suddenly, lashing out at the man who jumped back in terror the moment Microux came at him with the candlestick held high. Swinging the candlestick, Microux reached to grab the man with his left hand barely grasping his collar before the candlestick stopped him.

"Microux!" his uncle shouted, grabbing Microux around the torso and pulling him away from the man, but Microux found a grip on the doctor's sleeve and pulled. Microux swung the candlestick, striking the man's right arm with a fearsome blow and the force by which Microux pulled him caused him to stumble and Microux brought the candlestick down on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Microux screamed as his uncle pulled him off of the man, achieving a second blow before both of them fell to the tile floor.

"Henrie!" the teapot shrieked for fear as she watched her husband fight the grown boy.

The candlestick held Microux as tightly as he could, "Get the Doctor out of Microux's sight, hurry!" he ordered with all haste. Just as she nodded, Microux broke free of his uncle's grip and leapt to his feet seeing as he did a stream of blood dripping from the doctor's hand. A single drop splashed against the tile floor and Microux blinked once, in the second he closed his eyes he could hear its particles scattering about the floor as many tiny red beads.

Much like the petals of a rose the droplets of blood furled outwards, falling away slowly in Microux's mind as they faded into oblivion, never to be drawn out of the tile. The stain looked like a rose petal petrified into the tile much like a fossil; something left behind from that which was once beautiful. Microux stared at the one drop of blood entranced by it, wondering, wishing dearly to be like such a rose, which could be so beautiful even in its time of fading.

Suddenly, he dashed up the stairs, not even paying attention to the unevenness of his steps until he reached his room in the burned spire. The door slamming behind him could be heard all through the house but within his room it was silence, peaceful lonesomeness, with little stimulation to calm him. Silence, no voices, no flickering flames, not the steam of his tea or the coarseness of his covers, only quiet made him feel completely at peace. The cold air assured him that there was no chance of fire, but the snow outside pervaded the land, dusting it with ashes. Hours had been spent like this, hiding on the floor in the darkness with the drapes drawn, and shivering in the cold as he scratched his wrist where he had clenched the key.

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><p><strong>Here comes Microux's very dark perception on the world. If you are sensitive to self-harm, be advised, and read at your own risk. <strong>


	3. Chapter 2

**My apologies for the massive delay between chapters, I lost inspiration and kind of put this story on the back burner but after absorbing my thoughts into music and other sources of inspiration I finally finished this chapter! Please give me your input if you want more!**

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><p>Chapter II<p>

Keeping their voices low, Gerhardt was lead slowly back to the study from whence they came to see the extent of the damage Microux had done. The doctor brandished his arm in pain and his posture slumped feeling a great deal of discomfort in his back. Microux had struck the man so hard his arm bled and a very large bruise formed over the impacted area. Being a doctor, the man inspected the damage himself, he grunted from the pain as he received help in removing his coat and rolling up his sleeve, "I do not believe it is broken," he stated relieved with the family crowding about him.

"Thank heavens!" Gail Choixton declared, "Is there anything we can do to make up for this?" she begged.

The man shook his head though with a tender look in his eyes, "Please think little of it," he urged as the candlestick, Henrie Choixton brought warm bandages to his side and assisted him in wrapping the injury. "Tell me about Microux?" he asked suddenly, "I admit he has sparked my interest."

Henrie hesitated a bit, finding himself uneasy at the subject of the Choixton's past. He gave, desiring help for the boy more than protection of their history, "even before the fire, Microux was always a bit queer, he threw tantrums as a child and he was entirely unsocial. But now…" Henrie's voice faded in despair, "it seems he has lost all grasps on reality, he doesn't know the difference between people and objects, he even mistook snow for ashes this morning and threw himself on the floor in panic!"

With his uninjured arm, Gerhardt reached out and laid a hand on Henrie's arm, "don't worry," he assured softly, "I'm sure it was the fire years ago that did this to him. I see he has a very detailed photographic memory, and during the fire he must have seen something which he is unable to forget. I do not believe he is insane, but merely suffering from the traumatic memory of years ago. That kind of tragedy can scar any person for life."

With hope, Gail fastened the cloths around their guest's arm, "Do you think you can cure him?" she asked with mild excitement.

Having been patched up effectively for now, Gerhardt reclined in the sofa where he sat to rest his aching back from the blow Microux had struck against him, "something this deep set may require something more spiritual, or psychological than a 'cure'. Microux has always been different, _oui_?" he looked to the boy's uncle.

Henrie affirmed, scoffing the notion, "If by different you meant unintelligible at times, childlike in everything he does, and obsessive!" he burst, discouraged by everything. His wife stepped closer to him, running her fingers across his shoulders to soothe his worry, "I adopted that boy because I thought his damaged mind was salvageable, and he could come to live a normal life, but after fifteen years, we have not been able to coax him out of the house!"

The doctor sighed seeing how much more frustrated the boy's caretaker was than the young man himself, "Calm yourself," he urged gently, "you have given Microux all he could need until adulthood, I see hope for him yet. After all, he produced all these fantastic paintings!" Gerhardt gestured about the room at the canvases, "If he can duplicate an image from his amazing photographic memory, he could easily sell such art, with help in management."

None of this appeared to comfort Henrie Choixton, over the past several weeks, the boy's uncle and caretaker had been growing exceedingly discouraged by Microux's behavior, fearing there was nothing they could do to truly help him. Giving in, Henrie turned his eyes to the doctor and pleaded with every ounce of love he had for his late brother's son, "Please," his voice rang through the grand room, "will you do everything in your knowledge to help us free Microux of his torment?"

At this request, Gerhardt adopted a keen grin and nodded, "at the moment, however, I am in no condition to travel home as I came."

Gail affirmed with a nod and looked to her daughter as she spoke to the man, "I can send Christine to fetch a coach, or bring any family you might intend to help you on your way?" she finished in a questioning tone.

Gerhardt approved of such a suggestion, then reached into his breast pocket, producing a small card, "My daughter will know what to do, you may find her at this address," he instructed, handing it to Christine with his uninjured hand.

The Old Clock, Charles Choixton moved into the room slowly, as Christine left in a hurry for their guest's sake, "Meanwhile," the old man declared, "you can make yourself at home best you can in this old place, and tea will be about soon," he assured with a light smile.

At this, Henrie frowned adding to the statement, "I should probably go check on Microux, who knows what he's doing up there…" his voice trailed off as he left the room after Christine. As a whole, the household had gotten used to the cold, except for the candlestick and the few fireplaces Microux wanted lit, he insisted on keeping the house cold in his fear of the fire. Microux had a menagerie of strange obsessions, although he was afraid of fire, he insisted upon it, he required himself to pay his respects to his parents' portrait every morning as well as paint their demise, he subjected himself to living in this house even though he fell into dreadful panic attacks whenever he was reminded of what happened here. Even though he was afraid, this was all he knew, and the fear of unknown was greater than his past.

Henrie was unsure it was true that he was more afraid of the future than the past, because even when he invited Microux to leave the house, he only buried himself deeper into the memories he feared. Still, the candlestick pressed on, hoping that one day he could overcome his fears, and finally leave this place.

Henrie grasped the doorknob to Microux's room to find it locked, and he sighed heavily in despair so he knocked on the heavy mahogany, "Microux, unlock the door, please," he urged through the door.

After a few moments of silence, Henrie heard a clatter of metal from inside the room and Microux shouted back, "I'm changing, don't come in!"

With his brows furrowing in confusion, Henrie knocked on the door again, "Microux, it's the middle of the day, why do you need to change your clothes?" he demanded, reaching for the key he kept hidden in case Microux locked himself in his room, which he did often.

"Don't come in!" Microux urged again sounding a bit frantic in his voice.

Henrie inserted the iron key into the keyhole and turned slowly to not let Microux hear, "I know you're lying, Microux, what are you doing?" he yelled to know in urgency. Microux picked up the sound of the lock clicking the moment it happened and rushed for the door holding it shut. Henrie knew well the boy had very sensitive hearing but he didn't think with how Microux was rushing about in his room that he would hear such a faint noise. "Microux, let me in!" he commanded.

Microux held fast, being exceptionally stronger than he looked and of course his uncle was not as fit as he once was so Microux used his own key to quickly lock the door from the other side, "I don't need you, candlestick, there's plenty of light from the windows!" he insisted, walking away from the door once he thought it couldn't be opened from the other side.

Henrie quickly unlocked the door once more and threw it open, "Microux!" he demanded, trying to keep himself from raising his voice too loud but he was suddenly faced with the sight of standing in the center of a room he had destroyed. Henrie's eyes slowly followed the sight of the furniture and Microux's collections scattered and overturned, his bed sheets were on the floor and only the bare mattress remained on the bed. Microux had not changed his clothes, but had only removed his vest and boots, and he was currently pulling his left hand into his sleeve as if to hide something.

Microux didn't look at him, he only stared down, gripping his left arm very tightly. Henrie sighed, ever perturbed by the boy's behaviors, "have you been scratching?" he asked, concerned as he stepped closer, reaching out at Microux's arm.

Quickly, Microux drew himself away from his uncle, suddenly looking up and gazing directly into Henrie's eyes. The sight shook Henrie, Microux never looked anyone in the eyes for any reason, and whenever he did it triggered a fit. It was brief but with his eyes gazing deeply into Henrie's soul, Microux demanded in a calm, flat tone, "Get out!"

Henrie wanted to protest but seeing how firmly Microux wanted it, he resolved that most of the items in this room were already broken, and they belonged to Microux, so he could do with them what he desired, and everything be picked up and cleaned. Henrie heaved a soft sigh, "I'll be back in an hour with your afternoon tea…" he assured as he left.

Microux shook his head, "I'll come, don't come!" he insisted, "tea will be in the study."

Henrie looked back briefly, understanding Microux meant he would come down in an hour for tea in the study as usual, so he honored Microux's word and left, closing the door behind him. Microux waited a moment before locking the door, and now alone again, he rolled up his sleeve and winced. From his arm blossomed a deep red rosebud, its thorns burned his arm but it was so beautiful to him.

He sat down on his bed, reveling in the dark rouge, a kind of happiness coming over him as the pain pulsed in the back recesses of his mind. The blood on his arm reminded him of the drop of blood on the tile, which reminded him of a beautiful fading rose. He felt like these things, his memory, the horrid things he had seen, and the torment he suffered every day, could all fade away if he were to just be like that rose. To be beautiful, strong, and hopeful, and he let himself fade away with no regrets. That kind of outcome seemed most pleasing, and certainly comforting.

Letting it all end this way, healing his heart and spirit, whilst forfeiting his inward quest, seemed an easy route to take, so he took it. Reaching under a coarse blanket, he retrieved from where he had hidden it, a short silver knife, he had used in secret on previous occasions to cut his hair and shave. The Old Clock had stopped him a while back, teaching him how to properly shave, and how to comb his hair rather than suffer in the tangles, however he kept the blade.

Glancing over his shoulder, he brought the knife to his wrist which he normally scratched and pressed the dulled blade into his skin to produce the bright shining rose petal which he had seen on the tile. He tilted his wrist, letting the rose petal drift to the floor and disperse in tiny droplets as a frilling, fragrant flower on the floor. Fading out beautifully, the rose grew deep red and wide spreading out every petal it had, before they each faded away.

Not a sound escaped Microux's room for over an hour as very quietly he learned how to hurt himself in slowly ending his existence. It seemed like a good fate to him and the pain was a deep comfort to him. He would have kept himself locked up in his room, had he not heard the faint but distinct sound of the front door opening from across the house someone entering.

As far as he knew everyone was accounted for, so who was entering now? Curiously, he unlocked his door and peeked out, listening quietly for a few moments. He heard a new voice, one he had never heard before, faintly from the foyer and quickly, he took a red cravat and hurriedly tied it around his left wrist to stifle and hide the bleeding from the Old Clock and the candlestick. Once satisfied, he ran out of his room with even steps, trailing his fingers across the banister as he looked over and made out the candlestick and the Old Clock welcoming in what looked to him, like a girl.

Microux hesitated, leaning against the banister as he peered down at them, and almost the moment that he did, the girl looked back up at him, staring at him directly in the eyes. Microux lost eye contact with her and made out her simple blue dress, seeing from afar she kept her brown hair tied back neatly. He couldn't look at her face without faltering, but she stared up at him for a few moments until she turned her attention to the Old Clock.

"_Bienvenu_," the Old Clock declared, his blade like hands pointing to three and twenty, "You're just in time for tea." Microux wrinkled his nose, tea was supposed to be at three o'clock exactly, the Old Clock has held off the tea, knowing this visitor was coming. He watched the tea pot cross the hall to the study, followed closely by the candlestick, the doctor, and the girl.

"Microux," the Old Clock addressed gently. Microux made no apparent response, "Will you be coming down for tea?" he wondered in a careful calm tone. The girl looked up to him again hopefully, and Microux again met eyes with her for a brief moment, until he looked away and gave a slight undetectable nod. They did not look back to him as he descended the staircase to the foyer slowly, keeping his gaze on the girl in his house.

As the two visitors reclined about the study whilst Gail served their tea to them, Microux lurked behind them silently, staring at the girl intently. At one point the girl looked up to him with a gentle smile as she stated in kind consideration, "_Bonjour, Monsieur_ Microux, I am Béatrice Dentelle." However, Microux only eyed her skeptically when she spoke and he continued circling the room, stopping at the tea tray, the fireplace, and Béatrice every so often.

The candlestick stared at him the whole time, "Microux? Won't you be polite?" he urged.

Microux shook his head, staring into the deep embers of the fireplace, "She knows my name, I know her name, why should I say more?"

Heaving a sigh, Henrie got up and stepped over to Microux, not touching him but guiding him over to Béatrice, "You should ask her how she is doing?" he suggested, admittedly trying to force Microux to learn certain manners, and it was Henrie's work to teach Microux such things which enabled him to speak, otherwise they assumed he would not have spoken at all.

Microux stared at her, seeing as the girl uneasily sat with her back straight and she was not drinking her tea, "She is too warm, the fire is making this room too hot," he remarked accurately and this startled the girl. Microux knew he was right, but this surprised everyone that he was able to tell just by looking at her. Beauty was not something Microux found in one's face, but in their essence, how they walked, their mood upon entering, and this girl sang to him by the very air she breathed.

She saw no difference in him when she first glanced up to him on the banister, she saw right through him, through the thick layers of his troubled heart and deeply into his green eyes. For just a moment, he could think of her thoughts, her feeling, possibly how she saw him now after a few moments of being around him and he wondered how she would see him if she stayed here longer.

While the Old Clock and the candlestick spoke meaningless things to the doctor, Microux suddenly came out and declared, "Might, _Mademoiselle_ Dentelle enjoy a walk to the gardens?"

The household members stopped about their business and stared silently, the candlestick watched him with firm eyes, the tea set clattered softly, and the Old Clock questioned him, "Why do you suggest this, my boy?"

Microux's eyes drifted past the people he spoke to out the windows, "it is too warm in here, perhaps a walk through the fresh air would—"

"—that would be delightful," Béatrice declared happily, "I would enjoy that," she assured with her eyes deep set in Microux's allowing him to see they were a warm brown, like chocolate, and the shadows about the study.

Microux's eyes fell to the floor again, "the Old Clock will bring you your coat…" he muttered, instructing his grandfather to do so at the same time, "fetch mine as well,"

Charles and Henrie Choixton glared at each other silently for a moment watching Microux gesture Béatrice in a very gentleman-like manner, out of the study and they returned to the foyer. Now a gentleman, would have taken her hand, but Microux had an aversion to human contact which crippled him even now. Henrie grimaced the moment they left the room together, positively shocked, "When does, Microux ever go outsides 'for a walk'?" he shrieked at his father.

Charles sighed, and started after the two of them, all the family and their guest staring at him as he complied to Microux's every wish, "he only ever goes outside when he's crossing the courtyard to the wine cellar," he stated but didn't say more as he left to retrieve warmer garments for the two of them. The gardens at this time of year were not as fanciful as Charles imagined Microux saw them and it was only the cool air he offered to her.

Microux did not have much in the way of winter clothing for he never really left the house, but Charles was able to give Microux some of Henrie's things including a fine gray coat made of black wool. As they walked out of the foyer to the cold, Gerhardt glanced to the Old Clock in wonder, "why would Microux go to the wine cellar?" he puzzled.

Charles tried to keep a calm demeanor as he explained, "He has become attached to the place, that's where we found him fifteen years ago. He goes there often when he is very stressed, though in my opinion it does little to help him."

Gerhardt gathered his own coat, perplexed as he followed them out, "Do you find it likely he will take Béatrice there?" he ask admittedly concerned for his daughter.

"_Oui Monsieur_…" Henrie breathed frustrated as ever, as he hurriedly slid his arms through the sleeves of his coat to chase after Microux. He grumbled, sometimes wondering if on his good days Microux thought he was master of the household. The snow falling outside was crisp and powdery, Microux walked uncharacteristically slowly, but took time in the courtyard, in and around the dormant gardens to observe and dust off the snow which accumulated on the crumpled leaves and numerous twigs.

The woman at his side gazed down at him with a pleasant smile, tolerant of his incessant stops, yet moving fast enough to warrant distance between him and his lady follower, and the Old Clock and Candlestick which followed. On the far side of the courtyard, Microux gazed down at the iron bars, half hidden by the snow which provided air down in the wine cellar and he turned his eyes upwards at the spire where he slept now and remembered the sight of the fire which haunted him ever still. He brushed such thoughts aside and continued pleasantly, not allowing Béatrice to recognized his distress as he led her towards the entrance with a soft muttering of "this way…"

Gazing ahead at them, Henrie fretted like a child until Microux did something he didn't expect, the boy took Béatrice's hand just as they entered down into the wine cellar. Charles laid a hand on his son's shoulder seeing his jaw drop in disbelief, "there is hope for the boy yet, _mon fils,_ just you wait and see."

At a comfortable pace the teapot her candlestick, the old clock and Gerhardt Dentelle entered down into the wine cellar after the odd pair at their leisure. However, there was an odd silence about the wine cellar, indeed normally when Microux was here he would be screaming and crying, anyone who entered after him risk their health and safety when Microux was in that kind of fit. This time, Microux had a strange gracefulness about him, slow, ghostlike movements, and human contact which was unheard of.

He stopped in front of a portion of the wine cellar, and inaccessible vault, built when the manor was first constructed and virtually indestructible because it was lined with stone. Memories flooded through Microux's thoughts, poisoning his intentions. Béatrice held his hand firmly and looked up into his deep green eyes as they stared into this portion of the cellar, "What's wrong, _Monsieur?"_ They were met by open bars, empty shelves for the most expensive, aged wines, and that one vent, for a little air to reach down into the cellar.

A wide, crusted blood stain still tainted the stone, likewise for the ashes which had never been washed out, the ashes of his handmaiden. Microux's heart raced, his grip on the girl's hand tightening, and his panic driving him to madness. With his other hand, which was covered nearly to his palm with the red cravat, he reached out for the barred door to the vaulted area which had been left ajar. Béatrice winced slightly at his grip about her wrist, _"Monsieur Microux, _you are hurting me!" she warned in a soft warning.

He paid her no heed, looking over his shoulder, through the wine shelves and directly at his uncle, the fire from years ago, alit in his eyes. Henrie tensed, was the boy doing this out of spite against him? Was all this some kind of revenge? Did Microux hate the candlestick? "Microux!" Henrie shouted suddenly.

Microux snapped and in a second, his grip solidified as a vice and Béatrice cried out softly, now seeing the spite in his eyes. In one swift movement he swung his right arm around and threw the girl into the dungeon cage where he had watched his parents die, followed by his left arm which swung the heavy barred door shut and it latched closed, only to be opened by the key. This key, Microux never let go of under any circumstances.

Béatrice screamed for fear as Microux turned away from her and towards the candlestick who rushed at him, "Microux! What in the Hell are you doing!?" he cried out coming at Microux and trying to take hold of his arms but Microux threw him off, much stronger than he look and Henrie narrowly avoided falling into the rack of wines.

Gerhardt hurried closer but didn't dare get any nearer to Microux for his quick violence, "Microux…" he coaxed, "let her out of there!"

The girl panicked, getting up and grasping the bars, "Father!" she cried, tears forming in her eyes and streaming over her cheeks, "help me, please!"

Gerhardt glanced to his daughter lovingly, "I will, _ma chérie,_ _attend,"_ he soothed her fears softly, the look in his eyes curiously, "Microux, please let her out," he asked calmly.

Microux's eyes grew darker, firm and powerful, "No!" he insisted with a growl in his voice.

Gerhardt remained calm even in this, "Why not?" He moved slowly around Microux but the young man blocked his path.

Microux refused to meet eyes with him but stood in front of the bars, panicking and unpredictable, "the voices are never quiet!" he cried out suddenly, "no one ever comes! Only demons come here!" he shrieked at them, "no one ever comes! No one will ever come for her! Not the candlestick, not the Old Clock, not even tea in morning, not for a whole week!" he gripped the bars behind him, "she came…" he whispered, his voice cracking as tears consumed his anger, "no one ever came… but she did." He ran his fingers along the cold iron, "she's no demon, no lie, no… invisible voice! She's here!"

He felt Béatrice touch his hand and he caressed her touch, "she has to know…" he whispered to the doctor, "someone has to know!" he sobbed now, "please, I need to show her…" he whispered ever so softly, not looking at anything but the floor, "let me… please! I won't…" he choked on the words, "hurt her! I want her to know."

Gerhardt's stance loosened and he stood up straight, trying ever so hard to meet eyes with Microux, "I understand," he whispered and looked to his daughter more assumingly, _"Attend, ma chérie," _he repeated, requesting gently, "can you stay in there a little longer?"

Her eyes grew desperate, but after a moment she nodded, and without a word, Gerhardt walked out slowly, followed by Henrie and Charles. Henrie stifled a shriek as he protested, "Are you mad?! You're going to leave her in there with him?!"

Gerhardt whirled at him with a contorted expression, "do you think I want to!?" he burst, "he locked up my daughter and I can't let him do that!" he raised his voice even though he knew Microux would hate it. Slowly he composed himself as they reached the surface, "however, I believe Microux is getting at something, he clearly doesn't see any of you as human, and he fears me, but he singled her out with his words. I believe he's reaching out to Béatrice. I believe he's going to talk to her, or show her what is truly in his heart. She might be the only way we have of getting through to him, do you see what I mean?"

Charles Choixton frowned deeply at this, "But do you think it is wise?" he muttered, "Microux has stayed down there as long as a week without coming up for warmth or proper sleep."

Henire's hands shook nervously, "We can't let Microux, keep her in there, who knows what he'll do to her!" he insisted.

Gerhardt growled softly in his throat, "I'll get her permission," he whispered, "We'll keep an eye on him, but I want to test this theory." He suggested all this very fearfully, "Maybe, just maybe, Béatrice may be able to heal Microux's fragile mind."

* * *

><p><strong>I'm really assuming my rudimentary French, like <em>oui, monsieur,<em> and_ mademoiselle_ isn't going to be a problem but just in case:**

**_Bienvenu_ - Welcome**

**_mon fils_ - my son**

**_ma chérie - _my darling**

_**Attend - **_**wait, hold on**

**That a couple days of taking French on DuoLingo for the heck of it, I'm pretty proud of it, and I wish I took French in highscool or something.**


	4. Chapter 3

**It's flashback time! Enjoy!**

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><p>Chapter III<p>

When the lights of the fire disappeared they did not return, darkness and cold enveloped every aspect of Microux's existence, and he was unable to move. At first light, Microux made out the faint silhouettes of ashes, scraps of clothing, and bone on the stone floor before him. It horrified him, he knew what they once had been. He slowly drew himself up from his crumpled position on the floor and hoisted himself up to the tiny barred window. In the early morning light, all he could see was the slowly falling snow.

As they hours passed, alone in the wine cellar, and the light grew brighter in the day, the snow stopped and the winter sun came out. Ironically warm, it kissed all surfaces so they glistened and tried to melt slightly. However, the fresh snow did not melt, it darkened the old snow, and remained powdery in the light. Microux reached out through the window as far as he could to touch the snow, crushing the fluffy snowflakes in his hand. It left a light gray residue upon his palm and indeed was not cold at all.

Microux tensed as he realized silently, it was ash. It was the ashes of his home, and he was trapped underneath them. No one knew where he was. everyone believed he was dead. As the night came and the next morning, Microux curled up again on the cold stone and began to believe, maybe he was dead. Maybe death wouldn't take him and this was some form of purgatory, only accepting of monsters who can never be saved. Reality broke around him, voices became spirits, unusual noises where the ghosts of his parents come to haunt him, and his mind created his first unreality that he could live with.

The key he held, his silent, dormant, however loving handmaiden. She slept in his hand peacefully never to awaken unless he wanted her to. He pressed himself to the cold stone wall and held his arms tightly to his chest for warmth. In his hands he clutched that key but he did not move, and hours passed visited by only his shivering and his growing hunger. He had not eaten in two days now and he resisted every urge to move from where he was.

The hours grew long on the evening and the sky lit up again like fire until it too darkened, scaring the child so that he held his head and didn't dare look up to the light even when morning came again. The hours prolonged to days and the first movement Microux made was sudden, at long last he bolted up right after writhing on his side silently for hours but now he couldn't contain himself.

Near the ashes of his handmaiden he clenched his fists, on his knees, reeling over and vomiting. His stomach was empty, it had been for days, and more gravely than the fact he had not eaten neither had he drunk. He grew pale, his skin became moist and sticky like that of a frog and he collapsed on the floor near his sick. The pain throughout his body paralyzed him but he simply didn't know how to help himself or what was wrong. He struggled on his hands and knees vomiting every few minutes to the point where his empty stomach only produced blood.

He was too delirious to know how much longer he stayed down in that cellar, too young to fully remember this pain, and too scarred to say he maintained any innocence. Blood, pain, cold, blood, pain, and cold. The onset of tremulous chills rendered his weakened, bony body to a convulsing mass on the floor near a pool of blood he added to whenever the pain became too much to bear.

Not a sound but his coughing and the trickling of his blood from his lips came to his ear for what he thought was days. His skin burned he could see the fog rising from his hand in the cold as the fever consumed him. Finally he gave in, unsure that waiting would ever fulfill the goal he did not know. Why was he waiting in here? He was not trapped!

His friend, the little key, whispered to him, and he heard more voices, they grew around him assuring kind things. The house was not too damaged, with a little work it could be repaired, he heard them say. When the snow melts they could get to work on mending the burned manor, they continued. _"You can free yourself…" _the key whispered to him, _"go into the house, help them repair the house…"_

Microux coughed, breathing blood as he very weakly drew himself up out of the pool of blood. It covered his face as if he had ripped open an animal with his teeth, but even that seemed for favorable, a little food and sustenance, rather than being sick every hour. He could not even sleep to heal such a pain. With unsteady footing, he sluggishly stumbled against iron bars of the cell. His head knocked against the bars striking his pate with an unbearable ache. His hand shook as he inserted the key into the lock, licking his lips of the blood and shuddering before he turned it.

The door opened outward and he fell, landing again on the cold stone of the wine cellar and crawling, feebly towards the stairs out to the surface. The journey was a battle, he had no strength in his limbs, and the pain would have been too overwhelming to move had his determination… his obsession not been so strong.

The cold stone was rough and scraped his knees as they dragged lackadaisically across the floor. He focused his eyes only on the bricks below him, measuring their creases and fissures but not noticing how pale his thin hands were. He found the stairs after his eyes discovers a small hole in the wall which a mouse scurried into and he lost himself staring at that black abyss longingly for a few moments.

The wine collection was undamaged, it was not pilfered on the night of the fire, he heard the voices say softly. Microux laid his hand upon the first step, shakily as he drew himself upon the stone ascending at a snail's pace. He dragged himself up the jagged staircase of stone towards the light, growing weaker by the second.

He buckled over himself coming to a halt and coughing before the sick welled in his stomach, pouring out onto the stone and he gripped the stairs determining not lose in this fight. He would reach the surface, he had to!

"Merciful God!" a voice shrieked from very near to him, "Henrie!" it was a woman's voice. She seemed like a kind spirit, maybe some singing banshee who desired for her voice to be heard in this purgatory.

Microux raised his eyes to the light weakly but it was blocked out by two silhouettes, the second arriving later than the first which never moved. They stared down upon him, surprised he was alive. They had not expected anyone to have survive the massacre, much less this child. Microux's mind spiraled in confusion, too weak, too cold, too hungry, to dehydrated to even function a moment longer. He lost sight of the light and wearily, he laid his head down on the stone and sunk away into his true death. Finally, he thought, he could leave this purgatory, and enter the afterlife he was meant to live in, Heaven or Hell.

* * *

><p>Microux scratched at his left wrist, glancing nervously to Béatrice every other moment. He paced nervously before the door, rocking and bobbing in his walk, muttering incoherently to himself about the voices and the spirits. His distress emanated from him like an aura and Béatrice stared at him unblinking, unmoving, it was deathly, terrifying to Microux. Finally, Microux stopped pacing and rushed at the bars, grabbing them and shaking them with a loud noise, "You can't move!" he screamed at her with all his voice.<p>

Her spine stiffened, "I didn't move!" she insisted with him, indignantly.

Microux's knuckles turned white upon the bars and he reeled to and from them to steady his wavering thoughts in his ocean of uncertainty, "you can't move from there, not for days!" he explained in a nervous voice. He reached up and pulled at his hair, "after the fire falls the ashes…" he whispered, "fire falls to ash…" he repeated.

Slowly, Béatrice reached out at the bars, "Microux—"

"—Don't move!" he shouted in a voice so terrifyingly loud it seemed to be a roar, "the spirits will come for you, they'll show you the way to the light!" he said in an almost assuring voice. He was positive in himself though he appeared to be trying to replicate his dire predicament from fifteen years ago.

He took the bars again with fire in his eyes, "You'll stay there until you starve! You'll stay there until you bleed! You'll stay there until you go mad, thrashing about because you can't escape this purgatory, not even in death!"

He stared at her, making out the wrinkles in her dress and memorizing them, he spied the lace appearing at the hem of her skirt and her sleeves, a warm dress, warmer clothes than he had. She was not cold enough. It would take much longer for her to die in this cell than it did for him, and his frustration grew form fervent boiling his blood.

The crumbled down on the floor, he didn't have enough time, needed to quickly get this out, show her, make her understand, but how!? He didn't have enough time. He gripped his hair and cried, tugging on his auburn locks. Microux wept uncontrollably, sinking to the floor and rocking slowly as it even that would steady his thoughts. The movement was good, it was stimulating in the only way he wanted, long and rhythmic. Suddenly he felt Béatrice's spider like fingers reaching through the bars and touching his shoulder, he tensed and whirled about to face her.

The girl knelt at the edge of the cell, gripping the bars. Her dress trying to escape the bars like her fingers but failing to and she pressed her shoulders between the bars. "Please…" she whispered, "tell me," her voice urged.

Tears rolled down Microux's face, his green eyes sparkling like a dozen stars were trapped inside him, burning brightly. His tousled hair fell about his face in two strands which he brushed away tepidly. His lips trembled and his gaze fell away from her. Béatrice sighed, there was no way he was going to let her out of here, not in the state he was in. She frowned, "you were trapped in here once, weren't you?" she whispered and reached through the bars to touch his cheek, "for a week," she pulled his chin to look directly into her eyes, "alone, with no one but those voices in your head to talk to you. Is that what you're trying to show me?"

Microux forced his gaze down once more, he leaned forward, pressing his head between the cold bars, and he nodded ever so slightly, his hand drifting to his heart which beat faster than any drum. His other hand, his left, he favored, letting it drift into his pocket to stroke the key gingerly, his first friend of the spirits. She followed his movement with her eyes, "you show me," she urged, trying to take his gaze again but he refused, "what happened next?"

Microux accepted her touch on his cheek, caressing it and closing his eyes. Her hand was warm, smooth, and her slender fingers fondled his rough face unlike any creature he had ever made contact with. How wonderful was the feeling he couldn't liken to any he had experiences, that drew the key out of his pocket. As soon as she saw it, she tried to take it, but when he withdrew it from her, she kept his gaze.

Béatrice got him to open his eyes and stare into her own deep brown eyes, and with her gaze she reassured him, tenderly gracing her fingers on his skin while with her other hand, she forced him gently to relinquish his grip on the key. Their physical contact vanished as she stepped away from the bars and he fell into tears again, crying on the floor like the child he was, even though he no longer possessed the body of that child. The latch turning and freeing the girl was the most painful sound his ears took in all day and he continued to weep until she ran around the door.

The woman threw her arms around him with no hesitation to speak of holding on to him tightly to calm him but hastily he pushed her away. He stood up in a flash, refusing to meet eyes with her as he looked to the cellar door. "Candlestick!" he shouted hastily.

Henrie Choixton needed no further beckoning as he feared for the boy he had adopted and he rushed into the cellar to see Béatrice standing between him and Microux. Henrie shook his head slowly, "oh dear God…" he grieved, "Microux, what are you planning now!?"

Microux, of course, did not answer, but turned spitefully away for a silent moment and disappeared behind one of the wine shelves. Béatrice turned back to see he had vanished and took a few steps between the shelves. _"Monsieur…" _she beckoned in what she attempted to be her calmest voice.

Henrie came around the other way, just in time to see Microux select a bottle of wine from the shelf, raise it up to his eyes, which was peculiar because he could not read, and then raise it higher above Béatrice, "Microux!" Henrie shrieked, rushing at him just as he tried to bring the glass bottle down on Béatrice's head.

Microux screamed as a wild animal just as Béatrice cried out for fear and ran. Henrie grabbed Microux under his arms and restrained the boy as tightly as he could, "Calm down, Microux!" he demanded as he lowered the young man's flailing body to the floor, holding him there.

Microux kicked, writhed and screeched as if he were a dejected ghost, damned from his heavenly state to prey upon and haunt Henrie, "I lost everything, my blood, my consciousness, and my life on that day, she wanted to know what happened next! She will know what it was!" he insisted wildly, flailing in Henrie's arms.

Henrie's eyes widened in shock, "Were you going to knock her out?" he whispered in horror. No way! No way would Microux ever be that violent! Would he? Henrie had to scream Microux's name as he thrashed about in his arms but the boy only fought harder until the Old Clock rushed down into the cellar fighting with not Microux but his son.

The Old Clock pried Henrie's arms from around Microux's chest, "Let him go, Henrie! He's not a boy anymore! You cannot just restrain him!"

Microux broke free and scrambled away, running with all his might and blowing past Béatrice and _Monsieur_ Dentelle. With blinding speed, he dashed all the way back into the house, tracking snow across the carpet, stumbling up the stairs, and slamming the door to his room once he reached it. He paced about the room furiously, pulling on his hair, letting out brief cries in anger and frustration.

With one quick swipe he tossed a chair across the room so that a few of its legs broke off. He sank low, under the table it belonged to and he rocked irately, his right hand ripping off the cravat on his left wrist and scratching at the wound violently. He had tried to make her understand. He had tried! But it wasn't worth it. He was still going to fade out and it was going to be beautiful. The color he would impart to the gray world, the lush, living red would do so much to make it better once he was gone. He no longer needed anything.

Blood caked under his fingernails and the pain the wound caused numbed his senses to other pains. Happiness consumed him as the red covered both of his hands and he closed his eyes from where he sat under the table. Every day he got closer, and soon it would all be over.

* * *

><p>Warmth was a thing totally foreign to him, he forsook it, never wanting to touch the blessed warmth of the covers or the flames ever again in his life. But he was met by warmth when some form of consciousness returned to him. The air itself was warm, the temperature hotter to his left where a fire burned steadily. His eyes opened, fluttering quickly and looking towards that fire for fear but to his surprise the first thing which came into his vision was a candlestick.<p>

His brows knitted together and with all his might he tried to sit up and blow out the flame but he dizzied and collapsed in bed just as a voice urged him softly, "Don't move, it's okay, Microux!"

He pinned his eyes shut upon hearing the voice and tried to raise his hands to his ears. His throat felt sore and all his limbs felt as if they were being stabbed by a thousand tiny needles. He swallowed hard but it only caused him more pain. He heard the voices all around him, whispering things as they declared to all the other spirits that he was awake, demanding with each other to bring him water, and food. One urged him, a female voice, whispering as she raised his head, "Can you try to drink something?"

Microux opened his eyes slowly to see a teacup, practically floating in front of his face and he sat up a little utterly startled. It was moving on its own! "It's okay, Microux, you need to drink something," the teacup urged in a soft sweet voice. Hesitantly, he took the teacup in his hands, it was warm and wriggled in his grip threatening to fall away. The teacup pushed itself closer to his lips and guided his hands. He sipped the tea, a grey tea, it was bitter to him, and he didn't like the taste or the warmth.

The boy laid his head back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling absently, watching the ghostly figures hover over him, keeping him warm and trying to force him to eat. He was deathly pale from the fever, too weak to raise his arms, and he closed his eyes to rest only to feel them forcing his mouth open and trying to coax him into eating a light soup. The salt burned his sore throat and gravely he realized the spirits had been forcing him to eat this way over the course of his unconsciousness however long that might have been. His stomach ached to be filled after bleeding and he coughed.

The sputter, spitting out the soup onto the pillow beside him, caused him to curl up on his side, choking and coughing for several minutes until again he was spitting blood. He moaned softly for the pain in his stomach, crying words incomparably to any cry in French. The voices continued talking in his mind and he struggled to cover his ears. "Stop…" he wailed desperately, crying, and overwhelmed with pain, confusion and sorrow, it was the only word he could muster.

"Microux…" a sweet voice sang to him softly, soothing and gentle, the voice of a mother, "_Tu vas bien_, Microux…" she whispered to him. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked up to the blurry wavering creature looming over him, he made out her shape. Her cheeks were rosy and full, she had smooth dark brown hair, and she was much, much bigger than he.

Microux fell into violent tears again, and she shushed him kindly, taking a warm, moist cloth and stroking it across his forehead. As soon as he was conscious of the contact he suddenly reeled away from her in one quick motion, pressing himself against the headboard and letting out a scream. Yelling at her without any words to just leave but she didn't understand. All she saw was his fear. He was terrified of her.

He screamed and cried in shock for hours, never drawing the covers around himself for warmth until he heard the voices whispering. He calmed when they said they thought it best to leave him alone to rest for a while. He curled his legs up to his chest as tightly as he could, pressed into one small corner of the long bed, crying until he fell asleep. Never had such a lonesomeness seemed so wonderful to him, the cold so promising, the pain so endearing as if soon everything would come to an end.

But the end never came and for days Microux suffered while his body healed steadily.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Tu Vas Bien - <em>****You're alright**


End file.
